


A Holmes of Christmas Past

by jcporter1



Series: A Holmes of Christmas Past [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Crossover, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-09
Updated: 2012-12-22
Packaged: 2017-11-15 23:47:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/533127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jcporter1/pseuds/jcporter1
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock drops acid on Christmas Eve and slips through time; winding up at an older Baker Street already occupied by an older Holmes who shows him the proper way to treat a Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Trip

**Author's Note:**

> Sherlock, bored bored bored on Christmas Eve drops acid as an experiment. His trip home is certainly not boring.

The Trip

By jcporter1  
12/22/2010

 

It’s 10:30 at night in the St. Barts chemistry lab. Christmas Eve, the light from the lab is the only one burning on the entire floor. At his desk, Sherlock picks up a blotter and holds it up to the light, admiring the even distribution of the liquid on the porous square. Lysergic acid diethylamide.

LSD.

Developed as a psychotropic drug by Swedish Doctors to treat mental patients, it had been used as a recreational drug by kids in the 60’s and as a tool in the spy trade by the CIA. It was easily administered through food or drink with the delay before onset of symptoms taking so long that an agent could be long gone before the victim was affected. It could be an invaluable tool for a man in Sherlock's line of work if he could master it.

Of course, if the truth be told -he admitted to himself - the most important question was could it be used to relieve the dreadful tedium that beset him the moment there was the inevitable lull in his case work?

A problem to be solved. And a chemical one at that.

He had mixed this batch himself, from the recipe of Dr. Albert Hofmann no less. Of course Sherlock had made a few “adjustments” to the doctor’s ingredients, ones he imagined the doctor himself would acknowledge as improvements. He was holding a first class sample on this blotter paper.

He was so excited at the prospect of discovery that his heart fairly hammered in his chest. He set the wafer of paper on his tongue- head tipped back as though he were receiving communion. He smiled as he felt the paper dissolving. His chest heaved. He struggled to win mastery of himself. Dutifully he made notes in his lab book. He took his pulse, subtracted a few beats to allow for his excited state and then recorded his temperature. Once he arrived at Baker Street he would make the same recordings again and compare the results.

 

Then he pulled on his long over coat , turned the lights out and left the lab.

On the street Sherlock hailed a cab and instructed the driver to take him to Baker Street. He settled back in his seat and waited. Doctor Hofmann, after having accidently absorbed some of his own concoction through his skin, had noticed it's effects on his bike ride home from his lab. Sherlock wondered if he would have the same luck.

“Take the long way, driver. Go about Hampstead Heath. I’m early for my appointment.” There was no appointment, of course, but he didn't want the driver to be suspicuoius.

“Yes, sir.” The cab took the next right and wound them up towards the park. The holiday season flaunted itself all around them in red and green lights, tinsle and bunting, and brightly lit store fronts pandering to passing shoppers. Sherlock found it all mildly irritating. Such fuss. For what?  
Tomorrow there would be frozen homeless people and domestic violence calls, just like any other day of the year.

Nothing changed.

Street after street passed them by. Sherlock waited expectantly. Nothing happened. There was no physical reaction. No, warm and fuzzy feeling. No euphoria. No speeding pulse. He must have gotten a bad recipe. Or maybe his adjustments had changed the results. He was surprised at how profoundly disappointed he was.

As they drove around the public gardens, the number of pedestrians walking on the sidewalks and paths increased. A woman was walking a fox terrier. He found himself enthralled with the way the little dog thrust it’s front feet out as it pranced. As his eyes moved up the leash from dog to owner, he was quiet shocked to see her face melting. He actually gasped at the sight. An accident perhaps, a burn victim.?

“Sir,” the cabby asked in response to his gasp.

“ Oh, nothing” Sherlock said. Poor lady, yet bravely out walking, sharing her affliction with the world. And then ten feet behind her he saw a man whos face was also hanging in great jowels from his cheek bones down to his collar. The poor bastard turned to speak to his wife, who’s face dripped down past her collar to her chest, her mouth hung open in a gape like her jaw was unhinged.

Holmes felt nauseous at the sight. Peculiar. Human abnormalities usually never troubled him.

But wait, Dr. Hofmann first noticed the drug's affect when trees started changing shapes as he peddled past them. The LSD must be kicking in. Remarkable. It had come on completely unannounced.

That was the last fully lucid thought he remembered from that night.

As they drove on, he was suddenly conscious of a great need to escape the car. It was close and humid in the cab, while outside there was a faint mist in the air. He was desperate to feel it on his face. The trees in the park were swaying in time with some unheard music. He wanted to speak to some of the melting people, though it appeared they had gone in for the time being. He was finding it difficult to take a breath. He was quite certain there wasn’t enough oxygen in this cab.

“Pull over right now!” He began to search for the door handle. The driver pulled over to the curb. Before the car came to a stop, Sherlock already had the door open.

“Hey! Hey mate!” the driver shouted. “The fare!”

Holmes stopped, curious. “What is it” he leaned into the cab window.

“My money, mate, for the ride.”

“Money. “ Holmes straightened up and began a pocket to pocket search in no particular order until he heard the crinkle, and pulled out some crumpled papers with pictures of an old woman printed on it. “Money.” He handed it to the driver.

“You alright brother,” The cabby asked.

“Yes, great. Thank you “ he walked into the park.


	2. Holmes of Christmas Past II - The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's trip has become a wild cross country run through time with an odd face to face with himself.

 

Once out of the cab, Sherlock could breath again. Sweet relief. He walked quickly down the sidewalk. The rhythm of his footsteps fascinated him and he varied it as he strode out- now slower, now faster- creating a driving back beat for his night’s adventure.

He was warming up rapidly from the exertion and the mist on his face was delightfully chilly. He pulled his scarf off and flung it onto a bush, so that he might open his collar and expose his neck and upper chest to the prickling cold mist.

Delicious, but frustratingly limited.

He whipped his over coat off like a toreador and with a flourish cast it across a park bench.

What was this? A suit jacket. How many bleeding layers of clothes was he wearing? The jacket was flung onto the grass in disgust. And finally all that was left was his shirt. Off! Left in a huddle on the middle of the wet sidewalk.

Ah. That was it! He spread his arms to hug the freezing fog. The shotgun blast of tens of thousands of tiny stilettos of ice stabbing his bare glowing skin was an agony of sensation. Sherlock shivered violently and felt a shriek building up inside him. He worked his jaws, open - close, then stopped. Singing? He couldn’t make out the words, but there was just now voices, a choir, singing. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up as the beautiful haunting song washed over him.

It seemed to be coming from the patch of wood in the center of the park.

Like a deerhound he was off, long legs bounding over wet grass and leaping park benches, as he ran towards the trees.

It was peculiar, but once he started running, he found it impossible to stop. There simply was no impetus to do so. The wet grass streamed past in a blur. He was moving so fast, he couldn’t feel his feet hit the ground. Perhaps he was flying?

Into the woods.

It was so dark, just a few feet into the trees, that he could only see inches in front of him. Yet he ran unerringly, missing tree trunks by a hands breadth as he zig zagged through the forest. He could not miss the branches though, they whipped and tore at his skin like cat- of- nine- tails. Each whip stung , then warmed his icy skin. The treacle of warm blood running down his arms and chest was a miracle.

And then he was flying. Only not really. It was just that the ground had fallen away as he burst out of the trees and into a creek bed. He pin wheeled down the bank, until his boot caught on a rock, then he rolled and crashed, finally he sprawled face down spread eagle in the creek.

The water had not yet frozen, though it wore a delicate lace of ice on both banks. The water was so cold that it burned. The creek might as well have been a lava flow. Sherlock literally sprang from a prone position to his feet.

“Oh Sweet Jesus!” he shouted and scrambled up the far bank to the top. He beat his arms across his chest apoplectically in a desperate attempt to warm himself. The thought entered his head that he could actually die here.

Sherlock Holmes, famous consulting detective, found naked and frozen in a city park. Good God the tongues would never stop wagging.

Thinking of this made him laugh. In the cold night air, his laugh sounded like the caw of a crow. He stopped to listen, checking his arms for feathers. Still human. Wait!

There was that singing again.

He cocked his head to listen. It was coming from above him. He leaned back to search the branches. He laughed again. It was the wind blowing through the tree tops, it created a keening sound, like a person in distress.

The same wind was blowing across his wet skin making his muscles contract so hard that he gave himself lockjaw. To keep from freezing he began to run.

Running was not so effortless now. His legs were like stone pillars. He staggered drunkenly, clutching his arms around his torso, lurching blindly through the woods. Lights peaked between trunks and he saw civilization before him.. A patch of lawn, a sidewalk and then cobblestone.

He blundered out onto the road, catching himself before he split his lip on stone pavement. Straightening up he cast about for clues to where he was. No street signs were visible, he was in the center of the block. The light was strange. Everything looked orange, as if on fire. Gas lamp. The lights were gas lamp here.

There were no cabs running, not that one would have stopped for an half naked madman. A few people were walking around. Some gawked openly at him, some stepped further away and avoided his eyes.

Where the hell was he? All of his intimate knowledge of the streets of London had failed him after his disorienting cross country run. Still the number of streets around Hampstead Heath was finite. And all he had to do was ask. If only one of these good people would make eye contact with him.

“Excuse me?” he called out to a couple as they walked by. Their dress was odd, very old fashioned. Nearly Victorian. He in a great coat with a top hat, she in a long wool dress, belted long coat and shawl. They made as if they did not hear him. He stepped in their path. “Excuse me. Can you help me.?”

Unable to avoid him, the man pushed his woman behind him for safe keeping and brandished his walking stick.

“Here, you, clear off!” the man threatened.

“Hey! Hey!” Sherlock yelled back, affronted by the man‘s insensitivity , “I was mugged. They took my clothes. I need your help!”

“You need to sleep it off, before I call the Constable on you.” The man pushed past, dragging his wife with him.

Sherlock studied the man. Were those mutton chops? No one wore mutton chops. And the woman’s boots were high up the leg and buttoned. The two looked like people from a Curriers and Ives print. A quick look about and Sherlock realized everyone on the street was dressed in period clothes.

Bollocks. He must have wandered into some living museum of Christmas Past.

“Are you really not going to help me?” Sherlock called after the man and woman. “Unbelievable, A couple of costume actors are going to leave a man to freeze to death on the streets. It‘s Christmas Eve!” He hurried after the couple, trying once again to elicit their help.

Hearing his step coming up from behind, the man swung around and clubbed him with the handle of his cane. Sherlock just got his forearm up in time to block the blow and save his head. The heavy leaded grip made a sickening crack as it connected.

“Ah, Hey! Stop! Stop!” He shouted at the actor.

“Come on dear” the man’s wife pulled him away.

Hair wild and wet, bent over his wounded arm, naked from the waist up, Sherlock called after them. “Can you at least tell me where I am?”

“This is Baker Street” the woman called back. And as Sherlock stood gaping like a fish, she slid her shawl off her shoulders and let it fall to the sidewalk.

Sherlock straightened to his full height and stood there as if pole axed. Baker Street? This is Baker Street? Another bout of violent shivers reminded him that he was hypothermic. He sprang forward and collected the shawl. Draping it over his head and wrapping it around his shoulders, Sherlock began to believe he might make it after all.

Baker Street? Maybe this was the far end of it. Maybe they were having a street faire on this end and on the other end would be business as usual. He looked for an address. There. 325 Baker Street. He was only a block up from his flat. Look there was the Nags Head. Right where it should be. The place where the Indian Deli used to be was all boarded up. Business must have been bad lately. But other than the odd glow of gas lamps, the odd dress of its inhabitants and the complete lack of automobiles, it was all Baker Street, just as he remembered it.

He had heard nothing about this costume event. But then he had been working long hours. He could have walked past notices posted to store windows and street signs and just not have seen them.

“Ye olde Christmas street faire. Come one come all.” he declared in the voice of a carnival barker, and laughed at himself.

The heavens opened up and the mist turned to a hard pelting rain. People scurried away. So much for Christmas Cheer, he sneered. Then he took off at a trot, as the shawl began to sag with absorbed water.

A wreath hung on 221B Baker Street. Covering the knocker. Never mind ~Sherlock pounded on the door with his frozen fist.

“Mrs. Hudson!”

He turned around and kicked the door with the flat of the foot. “Mr. Hudson! I’ve lost my keys, let me in!”

The door opened, but it wasn’t Mrs. Hudson. It was a strange man in even stranger clothes. One of the bleeding Victorian Christmas costume actors. Mrs. Hudson no doubt had a kitchen full of them, chattering over cups of tea and mulled wine. She loved that sort of thing.

“Cheers mate, “ Sherlock said , amiably , “Rain drive you in?“ he asked as brushed past and took the steps two at a time to his rooms.


	3. Chapter 3

From Grace

12/24/2010

JC. Porter

Sherlock brushed past the stranger on his way to his digs. He took the steps two at a time for the first 16 stairs , then a stutter step on the 17th, as was his habit. The door to the sitting room was ajar, John must be home.

“John!” he called as he burst through the door. It was dark, His hand snaked around searching for the light switch by the door frame. When he couldn’t locate it, he went in further. The stranger who had let him in, followed him through the door and quickly went to a wall sconce and twisted a handle. The same orange light that had lit the streets, was now struggling to light the middle of the room, neglecting the dark corners all together.

“Gas again.” Sherlock wondered out loud. Then he called for John. He would have an explanation.

“John!” he shouted.

“He’s not here. But I suspect this is not news to you.” the stranger said.

Sherlock turned his head slowly and studied the strange man in his sitting room. Or rather, tried to, but in his heightened state, his eye caught on certain items and stuck there. Not particularly effective for gathering data, however- he could tell a police sketch artist that this man wore black leather boots, usually well maintained, with a shine to them, but of late the care had been neglected. Black river mud caked the inside arch. The toes of the shoes were scuffed and dusty, yet the instep was still polished, belied a recent period of intense activity, a search perhaps? He addressed the intruder.

“Who are you?” But before the man could answer, Sherlock answered for him, “You must be a friend of John’s.”

“Dr. John Watson and I have been dear friends for 15 years.” the man said steadily.

Sherlock nodded. He noticed that the stranger kept the same distance between them constantly; more than four feet, less than six. Amused, Sherlock moved forward and back to watch the strangers reaction. He wondered belatedly if he should be alarmed, but the fellow was a bit smaller in stature, and though fit, appeared to be at least 20 years his senior. Sherlock decided the man was not a threat.

“Are you a friend of Dr. Watson?” The stranger asked.

“Hmmm.” An interesting question, involving definition. His naturally analytical mind , overly sensitized by the addition of the LSD, leapt at the problem like a child on a Christmas toy.

“Friends,” he tried the word out, measured it against the relationship he had with his roommate. “Well, I don’t mind having him about. He’s helpful. I couldn’t afford this place with out him. Oh, yes~ he saved my life once - twice? Certainly once, and probably twice. I suppose one would say yes. Yes, we are friends.”   
It was getting rather warm. He draped the wet shawl over the back of a winged back chair - didn’t look like his chair, not at all, he patted it to ascertain that it was indeed there and not some figment of his imagination, then threw himself into it.

Never mind. A chair that seemed unfamiliar was hardly the oddest thing he had observed tonight. And gas sconces on the wall, well. hadn’t they always been there, just never used. He had imagined them to be non functioning, but …he brightened.

“There must have been a power outage. Of course.” Sherlock said with satisfaction. Mrs. Hudson had fired up these old gas lamps so they needn’t sit in the dark.

The stranger had been watching him keenly, one eyebrow raised in half a question.

“If you are a friend of Watson’s,” the stranger asked, “perhaps you can tell me where he is?”

“Well, if he’s not here~ John!” he shouted , waited a tic for an answer and then turned back “ did you check upstairs?”

Grim faced the stranger answered, “I’ve looked upstairs, I’ve looked at the hospitals, I’ve looked at the police stations, I’ve looked at the river and I’ve looked at the morgue.”

“Well,” Sherlock said with a wry smile, “that explains the condition of your footwear. And no luck then? Well, he’ll probably turn up shortly. Unless he’s at his girlfriends.”

“Girl friend?”

“No wait, Sarah has gone to her mothers for Christmas. So he should be returning tonight sometime, maybe late, if …you wanted me to tell him you stopped by…” he trailed off suggestively.

“Why should he return tonight and not any of the last three?”

“Listen chap,” Sherlock was beginning to wonder if he was the only one in the room who had consumed some mind altering substance, “ he was home last night, I heard him come in, and he was here this morning when I left, complaining that I hadn’t left him any tea.”

“You saw Watson?”

“I just said…”

The stranger cut him off, “What of this, then?” he held up a walking stick with an ornate handle.

“It’s a bloody cane,” Sherlock answered holding out his forearm, showing off the nasty bruise that was beginning to surface, “same as did this. What of it?”

With wonderful alacrity, the stranger pulled the handle apart from the body of the walking stick, revealing a hidden sword, some two feet in length, whose blade glinted in the amber gas light. He whipped it over his head in a graceful yet dreadfully precise arc that Sherlock could only watch with awe. It whisked down and the point of it came to rest against Sherlock’s left breast.

“Marvelous.” the word escaped his lips as he gazed up the length of the metal blade to the black eyes of the stranger on the other end.

Could this night get any better? The pressure of the swords tip against his skin sparked an itch in his spine. The thought passed behind his eyes that maybe he should lean in, just a little bit, to feel the bite of the swords tip. But he need not bother.

With icy determination, the stranger was leaning in on the sword, his practiced hand shoved the point through the skin, and perhaps a quarter inch into the muscle.

“Am I to be murdered” Sherlock asked with some surprise.

“That remains to be seen.”

“Wait,“ Sherlock gasped, “Are you one of Moriarty’s men.”

“No. I am not.“ The stranger snatched the sword back and slid it back in it’s scabbard. “Who is Moriarty to you?”

“My nemesis. He wants to destroy me.” Sherlock answered, feeling a little deflated. “Why did you ask about the cane?”

“It’s Watson’s. He would never leave without it.” The stranger tried to keep the fear out of his voice, but his words nearly choked him.

Sherlock took a deep breath and tried briefly to sort out why this man was speaking about his Watson as having been missing for three days and carrying this antique cane where ever he went. It seemed as if this man must be mad. A tickle on his chest distracted him. He looked down at his bare chest and watched the trickle of blood from the sword wound meander down his stomach.

“If you don’t mean to kill me, I’d like to put a shirt on.”

“By all means,” the man said, he nodded at the short hall way off the room, “first door on the right.”

“I know where my room is.” Sherlock grumbled. What he didn’t know was why his wall paper was foam green with forest green vertical stripes, or why his dresser had been replaced with a heavy ornate monstrosity. Must be the drug, he told himself, maybe the improvements he made to the recipe created elaborate hallucinations. But could hallucinations have caused his shirts to shrink?

He pulled shirt after shirt out of the dresser, and each was two sizes too small. He could just get them buttoned around his chest, but the sleeves only extended four fingers past his elbows. The best he could do was leave the cuffs open and rolled up and the collar open to the third button down. He covered the straining fabric with a vest he didn’t know he had from an armoire he didn’t recall owning. Clothed, in a fashion, he wandered back to the sitting room.

“You must introduce me to your tailor,” the stranger said from the winged back chair Sherlock had vacated. Smoke curled from the cigarette he held and the delicious tang of strong tobacco smoke filled the room. Sherlock was salivating for a fag. The events of the evening surely forgave a temporary set back to his cigarette abstinence.

“Do you have another of those?”

The stranger picked up a cigarette case from the table next to him and tossed it to Sherlock. Unfiltered. Sherlock’s lungs fairly quivered in anticipation. The stranger, watching him closely from deep dark eyes, tossed him a box of sulfur matches. The familiar routine of striking match, flair of chemical followed by smell of burning wood and crackle of paper and tobacco felt like the return of a long lost friend. He took a deep drag of his first respired nicotine in six months.

He covered the cough from his outraged alveoli with a clearing the throat harumph, and as he handed the case back he noticed it was engraved with the letters S. H.

“Same as me. Your initials, S. H.” The carbon monoxide and smoke displacing the oxygen in his lungs, made his head spin for a minute, but at the same time the nicotine was steadying to his nerves. He leaned against the mantle to catch his balance.

“Yes. And what would your name be?”

“You know that already, if you are friends with Watson, then you know I am Sherlock. But we have not been introduced, so what is your name?”

The stranger ignored the question.

“You have been drugged.” The stranger said.

Yes.” Sherlock saw no need to disguise the fact.

“Something plant based? A mushroom?” the stranger guessed.

“Very close. It is fungal.”

“The ergoline family?”

“Yes.” Sherlock marveled at the man’s knowledge, “Very good!”

“Hallucinations?”

“Some.” Sherlock admitted.

“And who administered this drug, Moriarty?”

“I took it myself. It is an experiment of scientific principals and practical uses.”

“I see.” the stranger nodded as if this were completely reasonable, “and you still suffer from its’ affect?”

“Yes.”

“Then I think you should come with me.”

“Come… with…you?”

“You should be under observation, and I can not stay. Watson is out there, somewhere in this city I feel it, and I fervently pray still in good health. Come, there is no time to waste.”

From a coat rack by the door, he grabbed a heavy long coat and tossed it to Sherlock.

“Put this on, it is Watson’s, no doubt a better fit than mine.” then the stranger grabbed a shorter working jacket and shrugged into it. He then went to his writing desk and from a drawer extracted a box of bullets.

“His desk?” Sherlock wondered why he felt compelled to prescribe ownership of anything in the flat to a stranger. But then the man knew the contents of the desk, and Sherlock wasn’t even sure why the coat of a man he knew to be a head shorter than him fit better than his own clothing. Whatever the answer, here was adventure and mystery and if he was very lucky, a bit of danger too. He picked up the cane with the ornate handle and felt it’s heft in his hand. A formidable weapon if needed.

“Can I carry the walking stick?” Sherlock asked.

“As I am carrying the revolver, you should take the cane. But the second we find Watson, you hand it back.”

“Agreed.”

“Come on. We’re off.” The stranger pushed past Sherlock and thundered down the stairs. Sherlock followed, catching up outside on the street just in time to leap into the hansom that the stranger had hailed. His heart hammered most delightfully in his chest, his breath came quick and shallow. He felt as though he were on a crusade with King Richard. This strange fellow- so intense, so devoted, so bright- Sherlock felt a kindred spirit must beat in the strangers breast. It was as if he had known this man all his life and he had NEVER let him down by deed or word.

“A horse drawn carriage,” Sherlock grinned at the stranger, “how novel.”

The dark eyes of his companion narrowed as he studied Sherlock’s face. He put his hand on Sherlock’s forearm and gave it a steadying squeeze. Then his brow furrowed.

“Where would you look for a missing companion?” he turned and looked out the window, as he continued speaking. “I’ve been all over the city. Everywhere I can think, places I couldn’t imagine.” he turned back and gave a tight smile. “I just don’t think he has been moved out of London. Moving a full grown man against his will is going to catch somebodies eye. Much more likely he is within a cab’s ride of Baker Street”

“Or on the river.” Sherlock said.

The stranger groaned. “I know. Of course the obvious route, but I have been in every boat yard and warehouse on both sides of the Thames up and down stream. Not a whisper.”

“If I were to secret someone away, I’d go to East India Docks and the Lea. I would have all that waterway from the Thames to Enfield to get lost in.” Sherlock said.

His companion nodded. “We are going that way, to Poplar. A case has presented itself which might have some bearing. Not likely, clutching at straws really, but …” he trailed off into a tight lipped silence.

Sherlock turned his attention to the city of London streaming past the window. The people, the housing, the businesses were from a different time, but it could have been place, as if the scene were from a third world country or a failed state in Eastern Europe. The streets were the same, however, and the churches and government buildings. Enthralled as he was, by the time the cab passed through Whitechapel he felt compelled to speak again.

‘You never told me your name.” he said.

The stranger gave him a sideways glance and returned to his reverie.

Sherlock continued stubbornly, “.I know your initials are S.H., same as mine. Is it Stephen?” he waited, “ Sam?”

“Sherlock.”

“Sorry?

The man smiled, “No, I am Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock felt a sudden agitation.

“No. No. I’m Sherl…”

The older Holmes put a quieting hand on Sherlock’s forearm.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“But…”

“My good man,” the older gentleman spoke calmly, “Only one person in this cab has partaken of an hallucinatory substance tonight. This may be your first night as Sherlock Holmes, the famous consulting detective, but you certainly are not the first person to turn up at Baker Street claiming to be me. It is the price of celebrity and the result of the good doctors’ detailed portrait of our living arrangements that people imagine they live there.”

However, you have a scientific mind, and an intimate knowledge of London. Truth be told, if ever I was in need of a second Sherlock Holmes now would be the time.

So welcome, Sherlock, - if you like- and call me Holmes. Now let us go and find our Watson.”

 

Holmes held out his hand . Sherlock smiled. Though he disagreed

with the stranger’s assessment of which of the two of them was the ‘real Sherlock Holmes’, here was a mystery to solve. A true Christmas gift if ever there was one.

“Brilliant,” he said, taking the offered hand in a warm clasp

“So why Poplar and what do we know so far?”

“You had better have this,” Holmes reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a letter. Sherlock read it, summarizing aloud the key elements of the document.

“Sent today, morning post. From Colonel Colethwaite, The Banks, Poplar. Spidery handwriting of a man of advanced age. Addressed to Dr. John Watson ” Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "I suppose reading another person's mail is acceptable in this instance." He kept reading.

“Dear Dr. Watson,

It has been some time since we have met in person. A happy circumstance since it means I have been relatively healthy, and not in need of your services.

You may note that I said: ‘In person’ for I have seen you recently in my dreams. Rather a surprise to me, for even though I find you to be a likeable fellow, I must admit, unless I am ill, I never give you a thought.

However, these past two nights you have entered my room, after I

have retired for the night and whisked me away to places in my past. The first night we returned to my childhood home in Essex, a pleasant visit, a chance to see my sister again, for we traveled not just to a different local, but a different time, some 40 years ago. I confess it was a touching dream, and I cherished the memory of it the next day.

Then again last night, as soon as my head hit the pillow and sleep overtook me, you came again, and this time we were off to India, I as a young and potent army officer, all swagger and dash, to conquer the subcontinent and extend the British Empire. An exciting dream, and one in which I met my wife, for she was the daughter of an ambassador who lived in New Delhi. But also one in which I lost many men under my command, and tasted the first bitterness of war’s reality.

This progression through time has me somewhat worried, for dreams of more recent events would not be as happy. And I do wonder if your appearance in my nocturnal visions is the portent to some malady that has yet to present any physical symptoms. Perhaps an unwinding of my mental faculties?

Do you suppose you could humor an old man and come around for a visit? At your earliest convenience of course.

Seasons’ Greetings,

Colonel Coltrane”

 

Sherlock folded the letter and replaced it in it’s envelope.

“So we are to arrive under cover of darkness and see if John returns for a third night. Rather Dickensian,” he noted.

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” Holmes said. “Dickensian?”

“Dickensian, from Dickens. Wrote A Christmas Carol ." Seeing that his companion appeared no wiser he continued, “A man is visited by ghosts who take him to points in his past that supposedly were key to his character development. At least that’s how they described it in my literature classes.”

“Ah.” Holmes nodded in understanding, “Literature. That explains it. Never touch the stuff. A ghost story you say. That is troubling. At last! Here we are.” He banged a fist on the roof of the cab and they disembarked into a deserted residential street. Once the cab had gone, all was complete silence.

“I’m afraid we still have a bit of a walk, I did not want to give ourselves away.” Holmes strode off, his steps swift yet silent. Sherlock shoved his walking stick into his belt like a sword and hurried after.

The road they traveled followed the river Lea, a feeder river to the Thames. Even if Sherlock had not known this already, the glimpses of the river revealed between the gaps of the houses gave it away. The houses themselves were large, gracious homes, Georgian in appearance, simple outside, no doubt opulent inside. Each sat upon a generous patch of earth. The houses hugged the street, and the bulk of the property swept down to the rivers edge. Most of the houses had docks, and most of the docks had watercraft of some sort tied to them, like waiting horses, bobbing in the current.

The further upstream they walked, the closer the houses were to the waters edge, no doubt because the tides had no effect at this distance from the Thames. When they arrived at the Colonel’s house, the river was a short 50 yards from the back of the house.

“How do you propose we enter?” Sherlock spoke in a low tone.

“Leave it to me. Will you stand guard here?”

Without waiting for an answer the elder Holmes, moving with feline grace was off down the walk and obscured by shrubs that lined the side walk. There was precious little to guard against. Not a dog bark, not a shout of anger or delight from any of these houses, they might as well be mausoleums.

‘Give me the city,’ he muttered to himself.

“Here,” a whispered voice called, he turned and followed the front walk to the opened front door of the house and the waiting Holmes. Quick work this other Holmes had made of that lock, Sherlock admired. He must work on his own skills.

Inside, Holmes shut the door carefully, releasing the handle slowly so the latch made no sound. They both stood patiently for several seconds, listening for sounds and letting their eyes adjust to the darkness of the room.

There came from beneath their feet a barely perceptible clanking sound. Sherlock felt Holmes hand clasp his shoulder to bring the sound to his attention. Sherlock patted Holmes hand, as a sign he also heard the noise. Then from deeper in the house a voice. A man’s voice. Not in alarm, but speaking, though unclear, it sounded like a call of good night.

“We are just in time.” Holmes said. Candle light approached them from an adjacent hallway, Holmes dashed into the sitting room off the foyer, and Sherlock followed, only just taking cover behind a coat rack, before a servant came and checked the lock on the front door with a rather violent rattle of the handle.. Sherlock held his breath, but Holmes had the foresight to lock the door behind them, so the servant was satisfied that all was right, and turned to go.

From his hiding place, Sherlock could see a birthmark on the servant. A white splash on his forehead. It seemed to Sherlock that the servant was not ashamed at all of his birthmark, rather the opposite since he made no attempt to cover it, but rather wore his thinning hair combed straight back.

The man left and went down the hallway and presently they heard the heavier sound of steps on stairs. His quarters must be upstairs. An odd arrangement. Usually the master of the house resided upstairs. But then this Colonel was of an advanced age, perhaps stairs were too much for him.

“I know that blackguard.” there was an unmistakable growl of fury in the whisper Holmes shared with Sherlock as he came up behind him and grabbed his arm. “Spalding! Watson and I put him in prison years ago. Come.” he grabbed Sherlock’s coat sleeve and dragged him along behind him.

As if he knew the house by heart, Holmes took a right off the foyer, and down the hallway straight away to a closed door with a faint light still showing under the door. He paused for just a second, to listen at the door. Then opened it and plunged in.

Sherlock did not enter with such alacrity, pausing to take in the room. An enormous four poster bed took up the center of the room. An elderly man snored quietly, propped against a mound of pillows. The light was from a gas lamp, turned down to just a glow. An odd odor filled the room, rather like a burning herb.

A sound from the hallway behind him hurried him into the room, Holmes hissed at him from a closet. His thankfully long legs covered the room in four strides and he had just made it into the closet and pulled the

door all but closed behind him, before the bedroom door swung wide and another man entered.

A choked sound from his companion drew Sherlock's attention away from the dapper, mustachioed man just now making his way to the Colonel’s bedside. Sherlock turned to see that tears had filled Holmes’ dark eyes, and the poor man was struggling to keep his position.

“Watson?” Sherlock mouthed the question. Holmes nodded. In spite of himself a smile creased his face as he took in a ragged breath. Sherlock wondered why they didn’t leap out and declare themselves, but another sound at the bedroom door revealed Holmes’ reason.

“Get on with it, Doctor.” a voice spoke from the hallway, threat implicit in every syllable.

Watson moved like a man under water. He pulled a case from his coat pocket and carefully measured out a syringe full of a clear liquid. Then with practiced movement he pulled back the sleeve of the old man’s bed clothes and injected the shot into the exposed forearm.


	4. The Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trapped, it takes two Holmes to win them thier freedom.

 

 

The Return

JC Porter

01/01/11

Once the syringe had been emptied, the doctor rolled the sleeve back down and patted the old man's arm gently. He tucked the syringe in his coat pocket and then pulled a stethoscope out of his shirt front and listened to his breathing, moving the stethoscope to four different spots on the Colonel’s chest. Last he took the old man's wrist in his own and counted heartbeats.  
Satisfied that his patient was in good shape, he picked up a book from the bed side table and began reading. Out loud. His voice was gentle, yet full of inflection, as if he were reading to a child.  
Sherlock tore his eyes away from the gentleman reading bed time stories and looked back at the bed room door. A shadow of a man, featureless in the dark, watched from outside the room. Sherlock wondered if he would stay there all night. His tall frame began complaining about the crouched position he was in. 'Any moment now I shall get a cramp' he worried, and then he could not guarantee he would maintain his position. He started to stand up, to rescue his legs when Holmes pushed him back down with a hand on his shoulder. Sherlock considered protesting such informal rudeness, when there was movement at the door.  
The servant with the white splash on his face entered the room. He sauntered over to the bed and placed a hand on Watson's back in a conspiratorial fashion. Sherlock could feel the hate emanating off the man crouching next to him, so palpable that he wondered how the servant - 'Spalding'- could not feel it.  
"How's the patient?" Spalding asked.

Watson pointedly ignored the question. This angered the smaller man, and he snatched the book out of Watson’s hands. He flipped the book over to read the title off the spine. His laugh was like the bark of a fox.

“The Hound of the Baskervilles.? Really Doctor, to read your own work to a captive audience.” he tossed the book back into Watson’s lap. “Still, I’m glad. Read about your dear Sherlock, remind yourself why it is so important that you make no mistakes with the Colonel. I need this man to stay alive, and if he dies, your friend dies too.”  
"Then you shouldn't be administering tranquilizers to him. It is far too dangerous for a man of his advanced age." Watson quivered with rage.

In their tiny hideout, Sherlock observed that Holmes’ countenance had twisted to one of murderous intent. Now it was Sherlock’s turn to rest a belaying hand on Holmes’ fore arm.  
"Not I ,Doctor.!" Spalding said with mock innocence. "You are the person injecting the Colonel. And don't forget, you are the one who procured the drug from the chemist. If anything happens to the old man, it is all on you, Doctor.”  
Spalding turned and walked to the door way, and paused, “ But don’t despair Dr. Watson, tonight will be the last time we have to drug the Colonel. After tonight we wont have any need of you.” Spalding grinned maliciously , then closed and locked the door from the outside.

Watson slumped dejected on the bed, his hands covering his face.

Holmes was on his feet. He pushed past Sherlock and stopped in the center of the room.  
"John." Holmes said thickly.

Watson’s hands fell away from his face, and he turned slowly, almost fearfully, as though hearing his friend’s voice in such a place caused him to doubt his sanity.

“Holmes?” he asked the dark figure in the shadows.

“I must ask, Watson. What are you doing to my client, old cock?”

Watson staggered to his feet, and stood unevenly at the foot of Colonel’s bed. “I’m trying to keep him alive.” he answered his friend.

Holmes strode over and took Watson’s hand and pulled him to him in to an embrace, that lasted so long Sherlock felt he ought to be looking in another direction.

"Holmes, how did you find me?" Watson finally pulled away.  
"I suspect it had something to do with your choice of reading material.” Holmes’ hands were touching the Doctor, here - on the arm, then there - on the collar bone. Sherlock discerned that the Detective was checking the Doctor for injury. When Holmes put an arm around Watson’s back in something of a sideways hug, Watson winced. Holmes frowned, but Watson waved him off with a subtle shake of his head. Sherlock marveled at their unspoken communication.

“Colonel Colethwaite sent a letter for you,” Holmes continued, “ because you had come to him in his dreams.”

“Ah, it worked. I didn’t dare hope.”

“Quite ingenious, John. I had run out of places to look.”  
On the bed behind them, Colonel Colethwaite moaned in his sleep and began to bark orders to a Sergeant Baker. Watson stepped away from Holmes to check on the old man, then spoke again.  
"I am afraid there are many of them Holmes, and Spald...."  
"Spalding." Holmes said grim faced, "I saw him. How did he get out so quickly."  
"It has been 15 years, his sentence was served. And what is the first thing he does when he’s free, but to try to succeed at his old plan. Only this time, instead of sending the Colonel off to the Red Headed League office, he knocks him unconscious with drugs."  
Sherlock felt a niggling sensation in the back of his neck, as his ears strained to hear the sound of footsteps or the click of a latch. Finally he could stand it no more and stepped forward.  
"Excuse me. I believe you said there are many of them? How many?"  
“Pardon me,” Holmes said to Watson, and stepped back to introduce Sherlock. “This is …”

“Bob.” Sherlock said with a curt nod, “Bob Cratchett. St. Barts. Laboratory specialist.”

“I see.” Watson gave Sherlock an appraising eye. Was there a hint of hostility, of jealousy ? It was not an emotion Sherlock ever battled with, yet he had seen that piercing look steal into the eyes of his own John Watson when ever he returned home from working a case with Lestrade in tow.

“Bob is a specialist in the newer anesthetics. And he wasn’t adverse to helping me tonight.”

"Of course." Watson gave Sherlock a warm smile. A little forced, just as his John would have done. "Seven I believe, including Spalding. "  
“And how the devil do we hold seven men at bay when there are only three of us and just one gun?" Sherlock asked to no one in particular. If the sleeping Colonel had an answer he was all ears.  
"He is repeating the Red Headed League?” Holmes queried. “So he is tunneling again?"  
"Yes he is. From the river to the house. As near as I can figure he wants a smuggling operation. From the India Docks up the Lea to the bed ridden Colonel‘s home." Watson filled in.  
"So, we only need cover both ends of the tunnel, and we have them."  
"Again, only one revolver." Sherlock reminded the men. "Two ends of a tunnel with one gun. Tricky.“

Watson gave Sherlock a close look, then turned back to Holmes. "They haven't broken through to the house yet. They plan on coming up through the pantry, in the kitchen."  
"We only need to cover the one end, then," Holmes said pointedly to Sherlock. "And we have the element of surprise. But first we need to get out of this room."  
While Holmes busied himself with the lock, Watson and Sherlock kept watch out the windows that overlooked the back lawn and the river. Sherlock noticed a figure moving along the shadows of the back lawn,. A sentry. He pointed the man out to Watson who nodded grimly. “He roams the grounds, front and back.”  
"Gentlemen." Holmes called. He stood before an open door. The two men left their posts and followed Holmes out.  
Watson led the way down the corridor through the house, heading for the back entrance. As they passed the kitchen, there was an unmistakable screech of wood and nails being pried apart.

“Blast. Sounds like they are ahead of schedule.” Holmes reversed course, and they stole into the empty kitchen. Through the pantry doors they found a surprisingly large room and floor boards just being jimmied up.

Holmes pulled the revolver out of his waist band and motioned with his head for Watson to come along beside him.  
Hefting Watson's cane, Sherlock was suddenly seized with an idea. He turned and ran, out of the kitchen. No doubt the two men he left behind would think him a coward, abandoning the battle, but there was no time to explain.

Sherlock ran by guess and by gosh toward the back of the house until he found a French door. Exactly what he was hoping for. He yanked it open and ran out. Without looking right or left he called out in a stage whisper,  
"The police are here, come on! the police are here,"  
"Where are you going?" he heard a frightened male whisper back to him from his right, the hitch in his voice belying that he was also at a trot.  
"To the boat. They found the tunnel, they are coming!"

That made the other man run faster, and as he pulled up along side the young detective, Sherlock blasted the back of the man's skull with the leaded handle of Watson's cane. The blow produced a satisfying 'thunk' and the would be smuggler went down.  
Sherlock felt a wild thrill. He skidded to a stop to check the man for weapons. A pistol was tucked into his belt. Sherlock removed it for his own. He fired it three times in the air, and continued running.  
He ran straight out onto the dock, boots making a racket on the wooden planks. Hurriedly he began casting off the lines of a small sailboat bobbing just as excitedly as Sherlock, at the end of the dock.  
"What's going on.?"  
"What the bleeding Hell is happening?" voices called behind him.  
He turned three quarter so they couldn't make out his face in the dark. From under the dock like the Billy Goats Gruff crawled three men. So the mouth of the tunnel was under the dock. Out of site from passing boats. Brilliant  
"The police are here. They found the tunnel. They are after us. I'm taking that sail boat and getting out of here."

. "I'm with you mate." one man called, then another. By the time he had the boat untied, he had a three men on board.  
"Casting off!" he called to no one in particular. Then he heard a gun retort. and a split second later a piece of lead slammed into a piling next to him. He looked up in time to see the muzzle flash from the second shot. It was being fired from a window on the second floor. Spalding? Wood splinters flew up from the dock at his feet. He scrambled to get the boat out into the current. then leapt on himself.  
"It's the police.... Hurry..... Get the sail up..... Someone take that oar...... " commands were coming from everyone to everybody. In the confusion, Sherlock was able to secure the rudder to a hard left turn with a bit of rope and a cleat.. In seconds the little craft was sideways to the current.  
"The rope is stuck! " Sherlock shouted. "I'll get it!" and he scrambled up the boom, and onto the mast. He shimmied up the 15 feet to the top just as the boat was heeling hard to right. He threw his weight into the keel over and in half a second the little sailboat was capsized. Sherlock immediately struck out for shore, his long arms and legs providing him with a decent enough stroke to counter both his street clothes, and Watson's cane still shoved into his belt.  
Behind him was confusion, shouting, some cries of 'I can't swim', and a generous portion of cursing.  
"At the very least," Sherlock told himself, "guns and powder would be wet." As he pulled himself up onto the bank, freezing and soaked for the second time that night, he was gratified to hear the blast of a steam horn. Flopping over he saw a police patrol boat, no doubt drawn by the gunfire, pulling along side the capsized sailboat, barking orders to the men clinging to the hull, and hauling them on board for questioning.  
"Ha ha!" Except for the hypothermia, he hadn't felt this good in a long time.  
"What are you laughing about, my friend?" Spalding suddenly loomed over him. His gun was nice and dry, and pointed straight at Sherlock's chest. No mucking about, this one, take the big target that you cannot miss. Head shots can be tricky- barrel pulls a little to the left or right, person moves, bullet deflects off skull- no a chest shot is far more effective.  
"Oy!" a cry from the police patrol boat, "Put that gun down!" Spalding grimaced at the command, compared the distance of the police sharp shooter to the distance to the nearest cover and sighed.

"Too bad for you," Spalding said sadly, "I'm not going back to prison, and that means you're not going home for Christmas."  
Sherlock knew it was hopeless, but he tried to swing one of his frozen legs up in an arcing kick at Spalding's gun hand. He missed the gunman's arm completely, but Spalding had to step back and re-aim.

Spalding pulled the trigger at the same time the patrol boat officer did, but the policeman's bullet took much longer to reach it's mark. The bullet from Spalding's gun punched through Sherlock's chest just above the spot that Holmes had pierced with Watson's cane.  
The bullet from the policeman came from a rifle, so it had a more velocity and passed horizontally through Spalding's chest from left to right and come out the other side after piercing both lobes of his lungs and his heart. Spalding was dead before he hit the ground, landing up hill of Sherlock and rolling down to rest against him. Sherlock instinctively struggled to escape the touch of the dead man and his lolling mouth. For a flash he was back in the cab, looking at the melting faces of pedestrians.  
"Lie still please, Bob," Watson was suddenly there, rolling Spalding out of the way like an old rug and popping Sherlock’s buttons as he ripped the shirt open to access the wound. Jealous or not he was a consummate physician and Sherlock felt himself relax.  
"I have your walking stick." Sherlock said, pulling it free from his belt with his right hand.  
"Jolly good." the doctor said, focused entirely on the path the bullet had taken and feeling front and back. Sherlock lay the cane back across his midsection, Watson would get it later. He began to shiver violently from the cold wind on his wet clothes.  
"Sorry to leave you exposed like this, but the cold is slowing your circulation which is a good thing until we get this dressed. You were lucky. The bullet didn't hit any major arteries, and it didn't smash your shoulder blade, but it is still in there and we have to get it out. I'm giving you a bit of pain medicine, and a field dressing until we get you to surgery.'

The morphine took him away, his last thought was that Watson's eyes were bluer than his Johns' eyes, but his John had a warmer smile.

 

When Sherlock awoke, he was stretched out on the settee. The one he had owned yesterday and last week and last month. He lay still for a moment, taking in his surroundings. In the distance he could make out the sound of cars on the motorway. He clasped his hand over his left shoulder.  
No bullet hole. He cast his eyes about the room. No gas lamps, no canes, no wing backed chair. Just home. And there, on the coat rack, John's coat. He was home.

All a crazy, drug- induced dream. Of course, there was nothing else it could have been. He should be relieved that the world was still the same ugly cold and savage place it had been yesterday. Yet he felt a sense of melancholy that puzzled him. He wished the dream had lasted long enough for the arrests. He wondered what Lestrade would have looked like. He would have liked to see Watson safely ensconsed in his digs again, home for Christmas against all odds, a doting Holmes tending to his every need.  
Christmas. Had he missed it? He patted his pockets for his cell phone. Oh no. He'd left it in the pocket of his jacket, which was now, if he remembered right, on a park bench in Hampstead Heath.  
Laptop. Sherlock got up and retrieved his laptop from his desk. There. It was the 25th. He hadn't missed Christmas.  
He paddled into the kitchen and located two not-so-dirty tea cups. He put the kettle on and went on an extensive search for tea, finally locating a dusty box of Earl Grey and a tin of shortbread cookies from last Christmas just as the kettle whistled. He loaded the lot on a tray and gingerly climbed the stairs to John's room.  
He let himself in and set the tray down on the end of the bed. John was sleeping hard, face down and twisted in the sheets.  
"John!" Sherlock called.  
John woke with a start.  
"What is it?" he rolled over and saw Sherlock standing at the foot of his bed. "Is it a fire?"  
"No. There's no fire. I brought tea up."  
John rubbed his eyes with the heals of his palms. "Tea?"  
"Yes. Tea. Merry Christmas." he handed a cup to John. John took a sip, hid the grimace caused by scalding hot, unsweetened old Earl Grey by wiping his mouth.  
"Well, that's fine. Thank you Sherlock, and Merry Christmas to you too."  
"There are cookies too."  
"I see. thank you." John squinted at Sherlock. "What is that you're wearing?"  
Sherlock looked down. He was still wearing that shirt that was two sizestoo small, and the waistcoat. This made his brain twitch. He decided it was best not to think about it.  
"Do you like it?"  
"Yes. Is it vintage?" John asked.  
"It's yours." Sherlock said. "I wore it to see if you liked it." He wiggled out of the waist coat and handed it to John.  
"Thank you Holmes. And I got you a little something too." he rolled to the edge of the bed and reached underneath. He pulled out a small gift wrapped box.  
Sherlock was chagrined. John had actually gone shopping for him. He was quite touched. He tore open the box to find a grey and chacoal scarf.  
"It 's wonderful." He put it on over the small shirt. John laughed.  
"You look festive, Sherlock."  
"I feel festive. After tea, lets take a day trip. Say, to Poplar."  
"Why Poplar exactly?" John asked.  
"Why not Poplar." Sherlock wanted to retrace the steps of his dream, to see how close he came to reality  
John shrugged. "Why not , indeed. Ok."  
"Its decided. And after, I will spring for Christmas dinner at the Indian deli."


End file.
